


O Magnum Mysterium

by onnenlintu



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 13:13:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13881576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onnenlintu/pseuds/onnenlintu
Summary: Short oneshot exploring Pastor A's view of her visitors. Theology in Year 90 is a little different.





	O Magnum Mysterium

She had always been one of the open ones, she thought. The listening type. She couldn't remember any more what exactly that had entailed, but she knew it had once been something she held within herself, and quite dearly. A liberal Christian. She wasn't really sure what "liberties" those took, now. But there had been something, somehow, and important.  
  
The scuff of her foot against the stone of the church floor echoed lightly in the empty space. No, not her own foot. Someone was here.  
  
The boy who had visited her before was back. He had come many times after the visit with his Finnish friend, always asking a few questions about the religion this building represented. It was a fact-gathering mission, rather than an attempt to find spiritual guidance. Nonetheless, she had extended as much hospitality as she could. It was nice to see someone, and he seemed like a truly sweet boy. Whatever his intentions were, the goodness of them shone through his awkward actions like light through one of the church's stained-glass windows.  
  
His questions were odd ones, she felt. She wasn't sure any more what the usual ones would have been, but she felt sure that whatever had happened in the world since she left it, people's view of God - of gods - was not what it used to be. She invited him, as always, to sit and drink tea. He responded with the same slightly fumbling respect for the request that one would pay a foreigner's ritual. She supposed that in a way, that was what it was.  
  
There had been evil in the world before the Rash, too. It was hard to remember what exactly, but she recalled with a keen sadness faces blank with hunger and the cold fingers of the abandoned struggling to grip what was offered. Her life's work had been in the offering, and she hadn't been the only one.  
  
She had known a good friend through these efforts, once. Someone from another church. No, not a church. Something else. Her friend's own faith had compelled her to charity greater than even most Christians. Her name had begun with an A, too, but it was just as impossible to remember. What stuck in the mind was the admiration felt for her devotion and open heart, the beauty of the bright scarves she had worn over her hair, the way she would stand in her kitchen after they had been out together to feed the needy. She would sing in a language the pastor didn't know, making rich, thick coffee. The memory came of thanking her friend, blessing her with a true sincerity, and turning to walk home. The keenness of realising that this was a person she missed was a jug hitting tiles, a memory breaking open sharply and completely.  
  
The journey she'd made that day over 90 years ago came back so clearly all of a sudden. She had seen another devoted to ending evil, in the street near her station home. A patch sewn to their jacket read _No Gods, No Masters_ and their face plainly showed a distrust of her and her collar that made her deeply sad. The branding on the trolley they'd filled with soup flasks also told her that this one didn't put much stock in _Thou shalt not steal_ , but the sign taped to it said _Food Not Bombs_ and the concern she felt was purely for their skinny limbs in the cold night. It was some kind of relief to remember she had never truly worried for the immortal souls of such people. She was unsure why, and the memory passed beyond her grasp too fast to process, the feeling of relief woven within it being pulled away too like so many feet of thread behind a needle.  
  
This pagan boy was just as slender, although his coat was much thicker. She wondered who'd made the gorgeous wool cloak he wore. Any of the old women who usually came to eat cake with her would have been proud to produce it. Clearly, those that had raised him had much to give in the way of love and devotion.  
  
"Maybe he's hard for you to hear as clearly as we hear ours because he's from so far away". He pulled her out of her reverie with a brightly delivered musing, still politely sipping the tea she'd given him.  
  
She had put down her cup and looked at him, puzzled. "Far away?"  
  
"Well, you said your god wasn't from Denmark originally. Maybe it's a bit like the Finns feeling the gods more in their own woods. Onni told me it's like that."  
  
"I'm not sure it does work like that. He is omnipresent."  
  
"Well, sure, they all are aren't they? But they still all come from somewhere." He smiled reassuringly, clearly hoping that this would be helpful.  
  
Once again, his simple sense of assurance as to the nature of gods was deeply jarring. _If your god can't be heard, perhaps he is just far away._ Gods in the world somewhere, perhaps kept from you by mountains and miles but still as present as the back of your own hand. One of the memories that often tapped at the back of her mind entered with some insistence. Spending hours puzzling over books, pondering on the nature of evil, on the nature of a God that was both imbued in the world and external to it. The nature of gods - of God - was not only a great mystery, it was _the_ great mystery.  
  
This wide-eyed mystic had never had to interpret Aquinas in his life. He was staring at something behind her, where the stained-glass windows formed images of lead and light. "Why's that man got a shepherd's staff?"  
  
This was a question she could answer. She slipped into Sunday-school mode with a force of habit that being 90 years dead couldn't touch. "The Lord is like a good shepherd. He guides our souls towards righteousness, just as the shepherd guides his sheep towards the good pasture."  
  
Reynir's face had lit up and he had sat more upright. "I'm a good shepherd, too! I'm great at herding sheep. We have them back home in Iceland." He appeared to have missed the point slightly.  
  
"That's wonderful, Reynir. It is somewhat of a metaphor, though. The good Lord guides our souls rather than real little wooly sheep."  
  
"Do all your souls work like sheep?" He seemed both excited and totally genuine in his question. She had no idea how to answer him. Once again, Reynir's view on the world was not one she knew how to engage with. Her noncommittal response didn't seem to discourage whatever line of questioning he'd hit on. "You really don't know anything about runes, do you?"  
  
"No, Reynir, I'm sorry." She thought she remembered him trying to show her how runes worked, convinced that any "mage" should at least recognise their power. She was not sure she could say she understood.  
  
He had sat back in his chair, wincing slightly at the last few sips of tea. The stained light in the flyaway hairs that escaped his braid was not unlike a faint halo. "It's okay. I'll think about this. I might not be able do anything for their souls, I mean... you'd need a Finnish mage for a Finn, and all. But if they like shepherds, who knows?"  
  
She had only nodded. It seemed polite, if nothing else. Despite his unshakeable belief in the power of his own gods, he had never acted as though hers was anything but likely to be real. She felt like they had discussed something about what souls he meant, but it really was so hazy. Some parts of her memory resisted visiting for a reason.  
  
He was standing up and thanking her for the "soup". Whatever he was excited about, it was nice to see that joy on his bright young face. He had tidied away everything he'd eaten off, rearranged all the chairs, then finally said his goodbyes. She watched his coat and braid sway behind him as he jogged into the mist outside the church. As the mist closed around him, the memory of all they'd discussed started to fade. She walked between the pews, lightly brushing dust off their peaks where the light caught it. Somewhere on the table behind her, the tea and cake regenerated where the boy had consumed them, and she slipped back into aimless wandering.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never been religious in the slightest nor was I raised by anyone religious, so I'm not sure I get the voice right here. "O Magnum Mysterium" is one of my favourites from back when I was in a church choir, though. (Here's some nice versions, maybe one of them will work where you live: https://open.spotify.com/track/0S0YKiEdR9cT9pYgEaTevF and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nn5ken3RJBo)


End file.
